


You Move Me

by Enfilade



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers IDW
Genre: Arguing, Embarrassment, M/M, Relationship Problems, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 05:14:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: Tarn and Deathsaurus have a fight.  It's a relationship inevitability, and neither of them is particularly well versed in the art of compromise.  Nobody said making it work would be easy.Posted for DJD Day of Lost Light Fest 2018.





	You Move Me

**Author's Note:**

> I'd be amiss not to post something on DJD Day of Lost Light Fest, even if my regular contributions are the "Datalogs from the Lost Light" following the events of the quest. 
> 
> This fic is shippy but entirely SFW.
> 
> It's set prior to "Dying of the Light" in an AU where Tarn and Deathsaurus have an ongoing and developing relationship. It's AU from canon in that at this point, they have enough mutual respect and trust to at least try to talk out their differences--a point they never reached in canon.
> 
> Song title from the chorus of the Susan Ashton song.
> 
> Inspired by a conversation with redredribbons.

_You Move Me_

The evening had ended early—not by either of the two Decepticons’ choice—and Tarn had been quiet and withdrawn during the entire trip back to the Warworld. Deathsaurus, reluctant to disturb him, grew agitated as the silence stretched on. Surely if Tarn was angry, he’d _say_ something. Right? 

It was equally possible Tarn was distracted by some entirely different matter weighing on his mind. Deathsaurus suspected that Tarn thought of Megatron more than he wanted to admit. 

Deathsaurus thought it best to simply give Tarn some space and wait for him to be ready to start a discussion. Or perhaps he was quiet because he was tired, and there was nothing to discuss at all. Deathsaurus had enough problems that he didn’t want to let his imagination invent some more. 

When the shuttle docked with the Warworld, Tarn disembarked without a word and Deathsaurus followed him, all the way across the hangar to Tarn’s quarters on the _Peaceful Tyranny_. Tarn didn’t protest when Deathsaurus entered his suite. He simply locked the door behind Deathsaurus. 

They’d gotten into a comfortable routine since they coordinated their recharge schedules. Tarn would lock the door, and then he’d take off his mask, and Deathsaurus would pull him close and whisper his old name into his audio… 

Deathsaurus’s fuel pump pounded in anticipation. He hoped that Tarn wasn’t fatigued this early. Spending the night with Tarn was always good, and tonight, well…a good fight always got Deathsaurus’s adrenals pumping. It was a shame about the casino, but perhaps they could find an alternate entertainment, just the two of them. 

The kaiju warlord reached out for Tarn. Tarn froze when Deathsaurus’s left hand closed over the tank tracks on his shoulder. 

Deathsaurus’s instincts flashed an amber caution light in the corner of his vision. His right hand slid down the side of Tarn’s mask and stopped overtop of his cheek. 

Tarn called him a rulebreaker, but in truth Deathsaurus was very strict about following rules that mattered. One of those rules was that Deathsaurus never took Tarn’s mask off. That choice was Tarn’s to make, not Deathsaurus’s to take. 

So Deathsaurus tilted his head and whispered, “Damus?” 

Optics flashed a bloody ruby through the eyeholes of the mask. The tank jerked out of Deathsaurus’s embrace. “My name is _Tarn_.” 

Deathsaurus recoiled. “You _are_ angry.” 

Tarn folded his arms and said, his voice clipped, “It took you this long to figure it out?” 

“I don’t understand what I d…” 

Tarn cut him off. “I took you to _the most exclusive casino on Monacus_ and you _started a bar brawl_.” 

The words felt like razors skittering over Deathsaurus’s spark. 

Deathsaurus flared his wings; his automatic response to any threat was to bite back. “You didn’t let me finish,” Deathsaurus persisted. “I don’t understand what I did _that was wrong_.” 

* 

Tarn realized he might have made a mistake when he’d chosen the evening’s venue. He could have picked a lower-middle-class establishment where Deathsaurus would fit in. But surely he shouldn’t have to sacrifice his own enjoyments in life just because his courtmate was a renegade pirate at his best and a savage beast at his worst. 

Tarn sighed. Perhaps his misguided choice was that of lover, not of venue. Deathsaurus was what he was, and there was no changing his fundamental nature. 

The thought made Tarn’s spark ache. He didn’t want his choice of courtmate to be wrong. 

Deathsaurus looked honestly bewildered. Tarn despaired of ever teaching Deathsaurus even a little basic civility. 

“You don’t know what was wrong about breaking a crystal decanter over that Ammonite combiner’s head,” Tarn said flatly. 

“No,” Deathsaurus insisted. “I don’t. I’d already asked them nicely to apologize and then shut their mouth. They refused to change their behaviour, and I demonstrated the consequences of that behaviour.” Deathsaurus hesitated, as though replaying the scene in his mind, searching for clues. “Was it that there was still a drink or two left in the decanter? Because the glass next to it was empty, but it was far too thin and brittle to make an effective weapon—I don’t think that Ammonite would even have noticed if I’d used that to…” 

Leave it to Deathsaurus to think a little waste was a higher sin than the whole appalling scene he’d created. 

“I have _never_ been so _embarrassed_ in the last _million years_.” 

All four of Deathsaurus’s optics turned as big and round as moons. Tarn was certain that the notion had never crossed Deathsaurus’s mind. The mech hadn’t an ounce of shame; he forgot that other people did. “Oh,” Deathsaurus said faintly. 

It had taken all of Tarn’s self-control not to have a _word_ with Deathsaurus right there in the bar. The kind of _word_ that would have dropped Deathsaurus to his knees. But Tarn knew that Deathsaurus would hate him if he did. In Deathsaurus’s mind, his alliance with the DJD gave him immunity from Tarn’s more fearsome talents. Punishing Deathsaurus by force would be tantamount to breaking the alliance. What did Deathsaurus always say? That it was wrong to hurt people you cared for. 

Tarn did not want Deathsaurus to hate him. Tarn realized with some dismay that his reasoning had nothing whatsoever to do with how dangerous it would be to make an enemy of Deathsaurus at this point. He feared that the prospect of losing Deathsaurus’s army and facing Megatron with just his own DJD no longer played a significant role in his reasoning, either. Whether they were a poor match or not, he was growing very fond of his field commander. 

Tarn was so used to instilling a little fear in everyone—his enemies, his allies, even his own team—that he hadn’t known what to do _other_ than using his Voice. He’d stood there uselessly while Deathsaurus changed shape and casino security exchanged glances, as though each waiting for someone _else_ to be the first to approach the roaring kaiju standing over his fallen foe. 

It was only when Deathsaurus had turned his head towards the bravest (or most foolish) security officer that Tarn had found his tongue. There was something predatory about the gleam in Deathsaurus’s optic. Something old and primitive—something that saw the security guard approaching and asked _query: prey?_

And then Deathsaurus had looked at _Tarn_ , as though seeking an answer from his courtmate. 

“Let’s _go_ ,” Tarn had said sharply, and he’d watched higher logic flood back into Deathsaurus’s expression. 

The warlord had changed shape back into his bipedal form, snarled, “Next time, keep those thoughts to yourself,” at the fallen Ammonite, and sauntered out of the bar as though he were proud of himself. As though he enjoyed the stunned stares and horrified expressions of the crowd. Tarn had followed him, face burning under his mask, swearing he’d never set foot in this casino ever again. 

Now, looking at Deathsaurus, Tarn found himself grateful he hadn’t used his Voice on his courtmate. Deathsaurus was a poor liar. When he said he didn’t understand what he’d done wrong, Tarn believed him. 

But Tarn wondered, once again, what kind of future there could possibly be for two people who were so different from one another. 

* 

Deathsaurus’s wings drooped. “Da… _Tarn_. I’m sorry. I never intended to embarrass you.” 

His fuel tank turned over in an all-too-familiar sickening feeling. He hated this so much. He thought he’d done something good. Instead, his actions had resulted in an effect that was entirely opposite from what he’d intended. 

Every time this happened, it made Deathsaurus want to slink away somewhere to be alone. To revert to his quadrupedal form and do the things he knew he was good at: hunting prey, guarding his crew, planning for battles to come. To the Pit with civilization and all its nonsensical rules. Perhaps he belonged in the wild, where life made sense. 

But he couldn’t just live as an animal forever. Not with Tarn as his courtmate. 

Tarn sighed. “Fortune preserve us, but I believe you.” 

Deathsaurus cocked his head sideways, searching Tarn’s body language for clues. Did that mean _apology accepted_? Or did it mean _your intent doesn’t change the consequences of your actions_? He wasn’t sure, and he didn’t know the socially acceptable way to ask. Deathsaurus was left guessing, afraid he’d draw another wrong conclusion. 

Tarn crossed the room and sat down on his berth. It was not a seductive gesture. Tarn looked weary to the bone. “Is that really what you would have done had that Ammonite insulted one of your crew?” 

“No.” Deathsaurus answered honestly. “Had it been anyone but you, I wouldn’t have bothered with asking for an apology first.” 

Tarn raked his fingertips over his mask. “Sometimes I despair of you.” 

“You want to hear someone say they’re sorry they wronged you. I know this matters to you. It doesn’t matter to me. It’s too easy for someone to say they’re sorry when they’re not.” Deathsaurus rustled his wing feathers. “A corpse is a _guarantee_ it will not happen again.” 

Agitation coursed through his body, setting his fuel pump pounding, sharpening his vision, prickling like needles on his hide. Deathsaurus paced the room to bleed off some of the energy. Even thinking about what the Ammonite had done made him want to fight all over again. 

In the casino, he’d held himself back so the Ammonite would survive. It had felt wrong then, and it felt wrong now. 

“Also, be it known I deliberately knocked that Ammonite unconscious, and didn’t go in for the kill. I read the rules and was well aware that fatalities in that establishment mean lifetime bans. You’re welcome.” Deathsaurus felt a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d tried so hard and received no credit for his effort. For anyone but Tarn, he wouldn’t have bothered learning the etiquette. 

Tarn glowered. “Do you honestly think I can ever show my face in that bar again after tonight’s debacle?” 

Deathsaurus stopped short. His instincts demanded he _fix the problem_ he’d caused. “Nobody saw your face. You had your mask on.” 

“Metaphori…” Tarn halted, mid-word. “Go to a bar with my mask off?” 

“Wear a cloak and nobody would recognize you.” Deathsaurus felt more hopeful. “That fixes the embarrassment problem in future, right? Anonymity.” 

“Anonymity means no _authority_. No _fear_.” 

“That Ammonite wasn’t afraid of saying those vile things behind your back,” Deathsaurus protested. 

Tarn shook his head disapprovingly. “Deathsaurus, did it never occur to you that if I had wanted to dignify that Ammonite’s crude remarks with a response, I was entirely capable of having a _word_ with them all on my own? You understand—a _word_? I could have had them writhing on the floor in agony while the security staff remained utterly unaware of what I was doing, or how. A quiet, _subtle_ , solution to the problem.” Tarn steepled his fingers. “You do realize I don’t need you to protect me? That I’m entirely capable of defending myself?” 

Deathsaurus felt his temper flare. “Then why _didn’t_ you? I _waited_ for you. You just sat there and pretended you didn’t hear that Ammonite’s comments and all I could think…” Deathsaurus drew in a ragged breath. “All I could think was that you were _testing_ me.” 

* 

If he lived to be a hundred million years old, Tarn would never understand how Deathsaurus’s mind worked. 

Tarn had decided to ignore the Ammonite’s foul mutterings. It would have been different if the Ammonite combiner had possessed the courage to confront him directly. Grumbling behind his back was nervy, yes, but Tarn valued a nice evening with his courtmate more than he cared about some alien who might not even know what the Decepticon Justice Division was, or have the good sense to be afraid. 

He’d hoped Deathsaurus was following his example. At first, it seemed as though he was. Then Deathsaurus got up from his seat and leaned over the bar, softly murmuring a request for an apology, and Tarn’s fuel tank had clenched with apprehension. 

The Ammonite had sneered and said something abusive. Tarn had felt his own temper pique. That mocking grin had _almost_ been enough to spur Tarn into using his Voice. 

Deathsaurus seemed immune to the Ammonite’s goading. In a level tone, he repeated his words. Quietly. Politely. But Tarn gathered that the request had become a demand. 

The Ammonite snorted and turned their back. 

And Deathsaurus snapped into action. It was sudden, as though an interior switch had been flipped that changed Deathsaurus’s demeanour from controlled civility to violent rampage in an instant. Deathsaurus had snatched up the bottle and brought it down in a single brutal blow to the back of the combiner’s neck. 

It was apparently not in Deathsaurus’s nature to ignore a problem. The Warworld commander liked his pre-emptive solutions. 

He also liked his tests. That was what he’d done at their first meeting: demanded Tarn kill the rest of the DJD as proof of allegiance. Tarn had refused, and as he had braced to resume their fight, Deathsaurus had clapped him on the shoulder and agreed to the alliance. Tarn supposed a mech who didn’t trust words would have to engineer scenarios in which he could observe actions. 

Clearly, Deathsaurus thought that Tarn had done the same while they were in the casino bar. But for the life of him, Tarn could not decipher what Deathsaurus thought he’d been testing. 

“Explain this,” Tarn asked softly. “I didn’t take care of the problem myself because I wanted to see if you…” 

“Cared enough to have your back,” Deathsaurus said, and though his words were blunt and graceless, they caused Tarn’s spark to wring just the same. Tarn could feel the pain in the flare of Deathsaurus’s wings and the flame in his optics; he knew his courtmate well enough now to see that Deathsaurus’s aggression was that of a wounded animal biting back. And the fact that Deathsaurus could seriously believe that Tarn was unaware of just how much Deathsaurus cared for him… 

“Have we not talked about our partnership enough to reassure you? Enough for you to believe that you have sufficiently reassured me?” 

“People _lie_ ,” Deathsaurus said, his wings fanning open and closed as he resumed his pacing. “I don’t just mean maliciously— _you are being deceived_ and all that. I mean… People say things they don’t mean all the time. They say them because they want to make the listener happy, or set him at ease. They say them because they feel social pressure to respond in an expected way. They say things they might think they mean in the heat of the moment, only to think twice when they realize the ramifications of what they’ve said. All these little lies. All these words that can’t be trusted.” 

Deathsaurus looked at Tarn, his distress clear on his face. “After what we’ve said to one another—it seemed logical you’d want to know if I’d follow through. A test for me to prove it. It’s…” Deathsaurus paused. “It’s the sort of thing that I’d do, and there’s the problem, isn’t it? We’re very different people. I forgot that.” 

“A test to see if I can trust you,” Tarn murmured. 

Then he wondered….had Deathsaurus been testing him? 

At first, yes…at first, when his crew’s lives were on the line. Tarn understood why Deathsaurus had done that. Deathsaurus would do anything to protect his crew. 

Recently? No, Tarn couldn’t recall any such tests recently. He’d hoped their relationship was past that point. But Deathsaurus evidently felt Tarn didn’t quite trust him yet. And Tarn knew better than to think that Deathsaurus fully trusted him. Deathsaurus was wary and paranoid after a brief, brutal life had given him countless reasons to be. 

So why wasn’t Deathsaurus making Tarn pass a gauntlet of trials any more? 

_Because you don’t need to run tests when you feel you have an answer._

What answer did Deathsaurus think he’d already discovered? 

Tarn reached out a hand and laid it on Deathsaurus’s arm as he paced past. Deathsaurus stopped dead in his tracks. Tarn swore he could feel the tension in the warlord’s frame. Deathsaurus’s wings quivered, feathers flicking. 

“I do trust you,” Tarn said. “I don’t need to test you. I’ve seen the risks you take for your crew—for anyone who’s _yours_. I’ve had time to come to know the kind of person you are. I would be shocked to see you let anyone down. It would be so out of character.” 

As he spoke the words, Tarn’s mind seized on a terrible possibility. 

There was no polite way to say it, but Deathsaurus wasn’t a polite mechanism. 

“Would you…” The words tasted sour on Tarn’s tongue. “Would you be so shocked if someone _didn’t_ let you down?" 

Deathsaurus’s guilty expression was answer enough. 

“You tested me to see if you could trust me with your crew. But you haven’t tested me recently, have you? You haven’t tried to see if you could trust me not to hurt your feelings. You’ve stopped engineering trials where you can evaluate my reactions.” 

Tarn got up. Slid his hand under Deathsaurus’s jaw. 

“Because you don’t want me to confirm your suspicions,” Tarn guessed. 

Deathsaurus quivered, suggesting Tarn’s guess was correct. 

“If you think I’m going to break your heart,” Tarn whispered, “ _why are you still here_?” 

Deathsaurus’s words were aggressive and bitter, but Tarn felt sorrow rather than anger as his courtmate spoke. “Do you think I could get a better deal anywhere else?” 

“I’m going to prove to you that you can’t,” Tarn said. 

With his free hand, he took off his mask. 

* 

“I forgive you,” Tarn murmured. 

Deathsaurus shivered. He’d never expected any sort of forgiveness from the leader of the DJD. The Decepticon Justice Division, as a rule, did not _do_ forgiveness. 

“Tarn?” Deathsaurus asked. He felt uneasy. He wanted to take Tarn at his word, which meant, of course, that he should _not_ take Tarn at his word. Life never went the way Deathsaurus wanted. He had to be ready for the trap that was surely coming. 

“It’s Damus,” his courtmate whispered. 

Deathsaurus felt his resolve falter. 

This situation might still be dangerous—possibly even fatal—but _what a way to go_. 

Deathsaurus couldn’t resist leaning in to kiss his courtmate’s lips. To pull Damus into his arms. To furl his wings around the both of them and imagine a world where his current happiness wasn’t fleeting. 

Deathsaurus prolonged the kiss as long as he could, but eventually Damus’s frame tensed under his grip. His courtmate needed to come up for air. 

As though his own intakes weren’t burning from the strain. 

Reluctantly, Deathsaurus ended the kiss and waited for a harsh word or a blow that never came. Damus looked up at him, optics sparkling, the trace of a smile on his lips. 

“You’re really not angry?” Deathsaurus asked skeptically. 

Damus took his courtmate’s hand. “No. Am I still _embarrassed_ , well, perhaps a little. But I can’t stay angry now that I understand your reasons.” Damus squeezed Deathsaurus’s hand. “How can I stay angry at a handsome warlord who’s so eager to do battle in defense of my honour?” 

Deathsaurus felt a strange emotion welling up in his spark. He was afraid it might be _hope_. 

“Just next time,” Damus said, “please _ask me_ , if you can, before leaping to my defense.” 

Deathsaurus nodded eagerly. “I can do that.” He squeezed Damus’s hands in return. “You know I like that you can take care of yourself, right?” 

“Do you?” Damus seemed as though he wanted to hear more. 

Deathsaurus felt a little sheepish. “Yeah. My crew…you know I love them, but it’s a different _kind_ of love. They look to me to protect them. You…I fight _with_ you, but you’re not dependent on me. That makes it feel more equal when we….you know.” 

“Please don’t tell me you’re getting shy about discussing fragging _now_.” 

Damus grinned. Deathsaurus laughed. 

Damus tossed his mask onto the table at his bedside. “Although…I hear a certain mech is less impressed by words than by _deeds_.” 

“Is that an invitation?” Deathsaurus inquired. 

“It could be,” Damus purred. “Doesn’t a good fight always rev you up?” 

Deathsaurus felt a grin tugging at his lips. A real smile, not his usual ironic smirk. “Do you want your answer in words or deeds?” 

Damus lay back on the berth. “Why don’t we consider this a test? Come show me your proof.” 

* 

Tarn—Damus—lay awake after Deathsaurus changed shape and dozed off snuggled into his side, one wing draped over Damus’s chest like a blanket. Damus admired the way the dim lighting glinted off Deathsaurus’s beak, his stylized neck feathers, the crest on his forehead. Deathsaurus’s engine rumbled a slow, contented note that made Damus’s spark constrict. 

This might never be an easy partnership. Damus had a sense of foreboding that he would probably be embarrassed by his courtmate again in the future. He would almost certainly end up in the midst of another bar fight. 

But Deathsaurus’s affection for him was so… 

_Blatent._

_Honest._

_Trustworthy._

He’d never again wonder if his lover truly cared for him. Deathsaurus showed it in his every act. 

No, he didn’t want to lose Deathsaurus. Suddenly, his embarrassment in the bar seemed so…small. So unimportant. 

Damus snuggled up to his courtmate and savoured the sensation of _forgiveness_. It felt strange. He’d spent most of his life holding people’s mistakes against them. Clinging to a checklist of sins; finding release only in punishing those sins. 

The release that came with letting go of anger…it felt very different. It left a little hollow inside his spark where his wrath used to be. He held Deathsaurus and let his affection for his courtmate fill the hollow. 

That felt… 

It felt good. Peaceful. Warm. Safe. 

Was this what it was like to be loved? 

Damus of Tarn wasn’t sure—not this soon—but all in all, he didn’t regret his decision. Deathsaurus’s error had been committed with love and the best intentions. Perhaps some sins didn’t belong on Tarn’s checklist. Perhaps it was permissible for the people around him to make a mistake, learn from it, and try again. 

_Perhaps it’s permissible for me to make mistakes. Change. Try again._

The notion shook the very foundation of Damus’s worldview. Damus clung to Deathsaurus, suddenly frightened, and Deathsaurus curled against him in his sleep, holding him tightly. 

That was how Damus of Tarn knew he’d done the right thing. Retribution had been the core of his world for so long, but the satisfaction of punishment delivered was nothing next to the warmth of a loyal heart. 


End file.
